


The World That We'll Invent

by obstinatrix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2018-10-17 06:13:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10588083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: Castiel wants to explain to Dean how he came to be here, after the lake, but Dean doesn't seem to want to talk. Still, this is a new world for Castiel now -- he can find another way to live in it. For the prompt 'chair sex'.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Doors.

**Gift type** : Fanfic  
 **Title:** The World That We'll Invent  
 **Author:**[](http://obstinatrix.livejournal.com/profile)[ **obstinatrix**](http://obstinatrix.livejournal.com/)  
 **Recipient:**[](http://elfladyarwen.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://elfladyarwen.livejournal.com/) **elfladyarwen**  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Word Count:** 3679  
 **Spoilers:** Up to 7.02 specifically; generically for the rest of S7.  
 **Summary:** Castiel wants to explain to Dean how he came to be here, after the lake, but Dean doesn't seem to want to talk. Still, this is a new world for Castiel now -- he can find another way to live in it. For the prompt 'chair sex'.  
 **Author notes:** Title from The Doors.

It wasn't supposed to go this way. Castiel couldn't exactly say what he'd expected to get out of this, confronting Dean with a fifth of Jack inside him, but he knows Dean wasn't supposed to wind up with Castiel's dick inside of him too. Goddamn Dean. The profanity still feels strange, something crude and human, but Castiel has come so far and if the rest of the road must be travelled, he may as well travel it now. Goddamn Dean, with his stupid perfect mouth that looks so good when he's irritated; Dean, who has no idea how to work through things the way rational, reasoning beings should. No: with Dean, everything is a challenge, or a competition; everything is only what happens when the string of him snaps. Castiel has been inside of him before, but never quite like this, Dean's knees either side of his thighs and Dean's teeth biting the words out of his mouth. Castiel has been inside of Dean before, but Dean has never seemed to need it so ferociously.

"Dean," he starts, or tries to, for the fifth time, but Dean doesn't set much stock by talking, never has, and this time, apparently, is no exception. Castiel has so much to say, so many explanations to offer, but Dean is a force of nature on top of him, pressing him down into the slack upholstery of the aged armchair, and it's evident he doesn't want to hear them. Five more minutes of this, and Castiel won't be capable of saying them, either, not with the fat thrust of Dean's cock smearing slick against his belly with every grind of his hips; not with the way Dean is breathing tight and hot, as if the air is being fucked right out of him. Castiel wants to tell him how he came to be here, how the Leviathan used him up and burned out his grace like it was fuel for their war machine, spat him out the other side human. He wants to tell Dean all these things and more, but Dean is telling Castiel something else in his own way, and Castiel can't quite bring himself to interrupt what Dean's body is saying.

He doesn't speak. That's what's twisting Castiel up the most, the fact that Dean is only the rhythm of his hips and the clutch of his body, the rasped, cut-off sounds he makes at the crest of every thrust. Before, Dean had been gentle, though he might have denied it. Dean _is_ gentle with his girls, even with the boys he fucks in dark sidestreets and in the back seat of his car; he was gentle with Castiel, when all they shared was sex. Now, Dean is rough, restless and frantic, his mouth on Castiel's more teeth and fucks of tongue than the slow, wet slides Castiel remembers from before. This is the way Dean fucks when he isn't just fucking, when everything inside him is churned up and aching beyond what he can take. This is the way he fucked when Lisa first took him in, his life's work gone to hell with the devil and his only friend recalled to heaven, just as out of reach -- or so he thought. He wasn't to know that Castiel couldn't stay away, that he hadn't learned how to let Dean alone. Castiel came, and he watched, and he learned the way Dean fucked when he gave a damn. And now, like this, with his nails raking red paths down Castiel's neck, Dean is giving everything, if only Castiel could be sure of what he meant by it.

Dean's still in most of his clothes; paused only to work his jeans down below his knees so the span of Castiel's hips would slot between them. Castiel, beneath him, is fully dressed, but for the splayed open vee of his fly and the way his shirt's gotten rucked up his abdomen by the motions of Dean's body. He's sweating, his shirt clinging tackily to the bunched muscles of his shoulders as he hefts Dean, hauls him back down. Dean is sweating too, his face flushed and damp with it when he pulls back to bite along the line of Castiel's jaw, and all Castiel wants is to feel his skin, relearn it with his palms. It isn't easy with the way Dean is moving, fist in Castiel's hair now as his hips jackknife forward in fast fierce slams. Castiel's fingers slip the first time on the hem of his t-shirt, but the second time he knows to grip tighter, peels it up Dean's damp torso until Dean lifts his arms, ducks his head to let Castiel pull it off.

"God," Castiel says, when it is done, his voice rough with effort. That word, too, feels strange in his mouth, but not inappropriate with Dean risen above him like this, the only god he has left. He's always known that Dean was beautiful, but now he _feels_ it, aching inside of him in places only humans have. Dean's leaner than he was, ribcage shifting under new-scarred skin with the heaves of his breaths. There's a healed white slash-mark on his flank Castiel doesn't remember. The lines of his tattoo gleam glossily beneath their layer of sweat, like new, but the marks of Castiel's fingers on Dean's arm have faded almost to nothing. Castiel has never felt human jealousy before, but he feels it now like a roll of thunder guiding his hand, making him growl and fuck up harder.

" _Dean_ ," he spits, fingers seeking out the faint ridge of the scar and sealing over it. "Dean --" He digs in, nails clawing at skin as if he could open the wound again, burn himself back into Dean's body, and Dean falls forward abruptly, tears at the collar of Cas's shirt.

"Cas," he murmurs, distinct and low. _Cas_. Castiel's heart almost stops at the sound of it, the first time he's heard it since he was put back together, incomplete. _Cas_ in Dean's voice turns the sense of loss into something else, something that makes Castiel tremble as he takes Dean's head between both of his hands, holds it still.

" _Yes_ ," he says, insistent, "it's me, Dean, it's Cas." He wants to say more, but Dean is watching him, green eyes glittering, and then, suddenly, his mouth is all over Castiel's, and Castiel feels the rest of it, for now, is superfluous. Dean licks into him, sucks on his tongue, grinds himself down into Castiel's lap. He's moaning, cheeks damp under Castiel's thumbs, and Castiel feels the moment their thrusts lose their ragged edge and become something boundless and desperate, an endless roll of their bodies into each other.

"Cas," Dean says, lips wet against Castiel's, and Castiel fists his hand around the shaft of Dean's dick, jacks it slickly and feels it swell. His own orgasm has been upon him for minutes, a banked white heat pounding urgent in his groin, but it isn't till Dean bites his tongue and jerks that it rushes back to him, _nownownow_. Dean cries out like he's dying, all his muscles clamping hard and abruptly around Castiel's cock, and then he's coming over the tunnel of Castiel's fingers, thick white strings of it pumping from his slit. The scent of it, Castiel remembers, but it's never twisted him up the way it's doing now; never hooked itself raw in the pit of his stomach and set all his own muscles clenching too.

" _Cas_ ," Dean hisses through his teeth, head falling back, mouth breaking wet and warm from Castiel's. He slides a hand down to curl over Castiel's, palming his own slick, and Castiel can't hold back any longer then -- pumps his hips once, stills, and comes in a rush like light.

"God," he moans, learning the shape of it in his mouth, under his tongue. "God, Dean."

"Ssshh," Dean says, low, and nuzzles his hair, kisses his temple, little animal comforts. "Ssssh, Cas, you're here, now, man. You're here. It's okay."

Castiel says nothing, only breathes, and after a moment Dean stops talking, too, body going lax on top of Castiel's. Castiel's head is cradled in the crook of Dean's elbow, Dean's mouth slightly open against Castiel's temple. Dean's heartbeat flutters against Castiel's palm on his back like a caged bird. Vaguely, as he feels the flutter slowing, Castiel realizes that this is not something they had done before, he and Dean, this slow uncoiling. Before, it was always get-up-clothes-on-go. and he senses that this is very different. The urgency of his want has been taken care of, but Dean is still close, skin smooth under Castiel's hands, and that keeps the low, sluggish heat pounding through Castiel's body, fizzing in his veins. He traces the shallow of Dean's back, the lines of his flanks. Dean's breath catches soft against Castiel's neck, and by the time Dean lifts his head, Castiel is half-hard again, breathing shallow.

"How?" Dean says. He pushes fingers into Castiel's hair, tugs at the thick of it and swallows hard, so Castiel can track its motion in his throat. "Cas -- you were _dead_."

Castiel shouldn't laugh, but it is so ridiculous, Dean Winchester, of all people, talking as if death is something from which one cannot return. "I was used up," he corrected, "but I survived."

"How?" Dean repeats. Castiel sighs, curves his fingertips into the dip of Dean's spine.

"I don't know. It kills humans, when they're taken, but --" He shrugs. "I had more for them to take. " Dean raises an eyebrow, and Castiel gives him a pointed look in return. "My grace, Dean."

Castiel sees the moment when Dean gets it, his eyes going wide. "They took your grace? So you're --"

"Human," Castiel says, with a wry little smile. "Low, dirty, insignificant, hungry, thirsty, needy human, Dean. Nothing more than that." He laughs, hollow. "Just like you." It had hurt at first, but even as Castiel says the words, he realizes it doesn't any more. Not so much.

From the look on his face, Dean isn't terribly hurt by it, either. "You're alive," he says simply, voice rough as his fingers are gentle on Castiel's face, tracing his cheekbones, his neck. "Everything's going to hell anyway, right? Might as well go there human."

An hour ago, if Castiel had heard Dean say that, he would have ached for him, but the Dean in his arms is not quite the Dean he saw when he came in. There's resignation in his words, but not despair, and Castiel -- Castiel can work with that. "I hear," he says, "you can take some interesting routes to get there." His heart is pounding beneath his clavicle, now, pulse skipping in little flutters in his inner thighs, under his ribcage. This must be what an adrenaline rush feels like. "To hell, I mean. For humans." He licks his lips, and the rush flares fiercer. Castiel is fairly certain he likes it.

"Shit, Cas." That's Dean, voice gone low and dark, and Castiel sees from the way his pupils are spreading into the green of his irises that he, apparently, likes it too. He shifts in Castiel's lap, and when Castiel chances a glance down, Dean's dick is fattening again. "You wanna go all out, huh?" Dean says. He's breathless. "Dirty, filthy, hungry humans, all that?"

The answer is on Castiel's lips before he can think. "Yes." Cautiously, he lifts his hips, grinds himself half-hard against the swell of Dean's backside, and Dean's eyes close, shoulders shifting with the pleased catch of his breath.

"Fuck," Dean says, and then, before Castiel can move, he's standing up, feet on the floor on either side of Castiel's knees. Castiel lifts a hand, grasping after him, but Dean steps away, throws him a smile. "Wait," he says, "just give me a minute."

He's naked, Castiel realizes, suddenly, as if it is a shock -- naked but for the bunched-up jeans and underwear he's taking the time to kick off his ankles entirely. His cock is flushed, lifting towards his belly as it fills, and it isn't till he reaches for Castiel's buttons that Castiel realizes what is going on.

"Shall I," he suggests, making to get up, but Dean shakes his head and slams him down again into the chair with a hand on his breastbone.

"Just let me," he says, firm. He undoes Castiel's tie in two long pulls; tears open his shirt and coaxes Castiel forward in his chair to haul it off, toss it away. The trousers are easier, a couple of hard tugs to slide the whole lot over his backside, down to his ankles where they catch on his shoes until Dean pulls those off, too.

By the time he's naked, Castiel is fully hard again, dick fat and straining. He cups one hand around the spine of it, chest heaving with his breaths as he watches Dean watch him. "Are you coming back?" he prompts, other hand groping for Dean. Dean, flushed down into his chest with want, laughs softly, shakes his head.

"Yeah," he says, contradicting himself, "but not like -- gimme a second."

After all this time, Castiel thinks he can afford a second, but he doesn't expect what he gets at the end of it: Dean shifting around until his back is to Castiel, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair.

"What --" Castiel begins, but Dean shakes his head, the muscles of his shoulders shifting under his skin with the motion.

"Wait," he says. One hand leaves the chair, the other arm straining to support his weight at the curious angle, and then his fingers are curling around the shaft of Castiel's dick, angling it upward between Dean's legs.

"Oh," Castiel says, as the head of him nudges Dean's hole, and then, " _oh_ ," as Dean leans backward, lowers himself down, swallowing Castiel in one swift shove.

"Yeah," Dean says. His voice sounds strained, stretched thin, like this sliver of a thing is all he has room for with all of Castiel's dick stuffed up inside of him. He's flush to Castiel's lap, now, ass to his thighs, and for a moment he's still, only the pounding of his heartbeat leading the pulse of Castiel's own. Then, slowly, he lifts himself, feet flat to the floor, strong thighs straining so Castiel can feel the hot drag of his body all the way to the head of himself.

" _Oh_." It's instinct, the way he clutches at Dean's hips, fingers settling over the spurs of them to anchor himself. He doesn't mean to pull Dean down so much as he can't help himself fucking up, trying to get back into that heat, but Dean _groans_ in a way that says he likes it, lets gravity spear him open again.

"Fuck, Cas." Another upward pull, and Castiel is beginning to understand how this set-up works, his hands on Dean's waist and his cock getting deep, so deep into Dean. When Dean leans back against him, head falling back onto Castiel's shoulder, it's even better, the angle abruptly tighter and Dean's long throat suddenly kissably close. Dean smells good, all sweat-salt-skin, and Castiel opens his mouth on impulse over the tendon in his neck, biting at the stretch of it. Dean moans, starts fucking himself faster, and Castiel finds with a start of heat that he's moaning, too, wet in the hollow of Dean's throat.

"Fuck, Cas," Dean is saying, one arm lifting to curl around the back of Castiel's head, fingers sliding down to grip the sweaty nape of his neck. This isn't the silent, stunned Dean of before, but it isn't, either, the mouthy Dean who once fucked Castiel gently and never meant a word he said. This is a new Dean entirely, one who fucks hard and spits filth from somewhere raw and unguarded, and Castiel wants all of him, stomach clenching hotly with the craving.

"Yeah?" Castiel says. One of Dean's words, and it feels as strange, in its own way, as the blasphemy did, but Dean seems to like it, humming in response. He seems to like it even more when Castiel's arm slips from Dean's hip and onto his thigh, palming the inside, sliding upward until he meets the tight weight of Dean's balls.

"Yeah," Dean says fervently. His fingers tighten on Castiel's nape, and then he's turning his head, turning _Castiel's_ head until their mouths rub wet together, open and slack with want.

" _Dean_." Castiel can barely breathe, now, chest constricted with it. Dean's weight is almost entirely on him now, only the tips of his toes still on the floor, and Castiel spreads a hand flat on his chest to brace him, thumb rubbing the peak of one nipple. Dean hisses, rubs the flat of his tongue over Castiel's, bites at his lower lip.

"Fuck, _Cas_ , come on." His fingers find Cas's, press them hard against his balls, drag them upward pointedly. "Would you fuckin' -- touch me, Christ, _fuck_ me, c'n you do that?" He's panting, tonguing at Castiel's jaw and mouth alternately, rocking his hips frantically. "Just -- _fuck_."

He's hot, so fucking hot in Castiel's hand when his fingers close around him, the whole flushed shaft of him slick with spend and new precome. Castiel's thumb rubs wetly over the head and Dean _groans_ , bucks his hips, fucking Castiel's fist as his head rolls back onto Castiel's shoulder, breath hot in the hollow of Castiel's throat.

"Shit," Dean's murmuring, pinned between Castiel's dick and the cradle of his hand, hips shifting frenetically. "Shit, shit, _Cas_."

"Doing it right?" Castiel barely recognizes his own voice. He knows it's a redundant question, but it makes him twitch, fatten impossibly in the clutch of Dean's body to ask it, and it makes Dean shiver all over to hear.

"Yeah," Dean says weakly, working faster now, and Castiel jabs up into him shallow and hard, fast little fucks.

"Yeah," he echoes, dark against the curve of Dean's neck, and then he's biting at the juncture of neck and shoulder and Dean is, God, Dean is apparently extremely susceptible to that. The next thing he knows, Dean's crying out, hips pistoning upward as he shoots over Castiel's fist for the second time in half an hour. There's less of it, now, but his balls are tight and full against Castiel's own in the second before he comes, and God.

" _Fuck_ " Castiel says, savoring it, Dean's profanity, Dean's body, Dean's base human existence. He finds Dean's thighs with his palms, hauls him down and holds him there, pinned on his cock. "Fuck, fuck, _Dean_."

"C'mon," Dean gets out, "Cas, c'mon, give it to me. Come in me, I want it, want you."

The sound Castiel makes at that is muffled against the nape of Dean's neck, his teeth sealing over the bone there as he grinds up deep and stills, seizing as he comes. Dean's hips pulse gamely, reflexively, and Castiel muffles a laugh against Dean's shoulder as he falls back, forces his lungs to breathe.

"God," he says, when he can speak again, " _God_."

It still doesn't feel quite right, but better. Maybe if he keeps doing it, it'll get easier. In many ways, he supposes that is what being human is.

Dean shifts a little in his lap, turns his body until Castiel slips out of him, slick and spent. Castiel half expects him to get up and go, so his body flushes pleasantly when Dean turns, instead, so his legs are thrown sideways over Castiel's in the chair. No angel any more, Castiel isn't as strong as he used to be, but he and Dean are much of a size, and the pressure of Dean on his body is -- nice. Something about his warm weight is just this side of uncomfortable, just the _right_ side. Castiel palms Dean's head; Dean rubs his face against the side of Castiel's neck and leans his face against his shoulder.

"So," he says, and Castiel laughs a little, stretches his toes, just because he can.

"So."

Dean smiles. Castiel can feel it against his skin. "Welcome to the crappy club, I guess." His hand finds its way into Castiel's, squeezes a moment. "For what it's worth, if the alternative was you being Leviathan-mince, I'm glad you're in it." He pauses, a little awkwardly. "You know."

And this is Dean, Castiel thinks, fondly. He rubs his cheek against the top of Dean's head, feels the softness of his hair, damp with sweat. "I know," he says, because Dean needs to hear it. Because it is true. "I'm glad, too."


End file.
